


Almost Only Counts in Horseshoes

by JJJunky



Category: Twelve O'Clock High (1964)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:46:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJJunky/pseuds/JJJunky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An arrogant captain with an experimental aircraft could prove to be Gallagher's undoing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Only Counts in Horseshoes

Almost Only Counts in Horseshoes  
By JJJunky 

 

Bowing his head, Gallagher let it rest lightly upon the wheel of the jeep. Against Komansky's protests he had chosen to drive himself to wing headquarters. Alone, he didn't have to continually try to deny his condition. A condition that was clearly apparent in his bloodshot eyes and slightly trembling hands.

In the last seven days, they had made five trips to Rostock to destroy its aircraft factories and shipbuilding facilities. Each trip was long and expensive. Flying so deep into Germany they were virtually unprotected for over half the flight, since none of the fighters had the fuel capacity to fly all the way to the target and back. This made the slow, heavy bombers easy prey for the multitude of enemy fighters waiting for them just outside the P-38's range. By the time they reached the I.P., the few bombers still capable of completing a bomb run were barely able to make a dent on either of the two targets.

Which meant his superior, General Britt, was probably getting his own kind of flak, not only from his immediate superiors, but also the navy brass. Mildly curious as to how much of the joint attack would filter down to him, Gallagher wearily stepped from the jeep and walked toward the tall imposing building housing the headquarters for one wing of the United States Eighth Air Force.

Once it had been the estate of a family that could trace its lineage back to Henry II. They, like the splendor of the manicured lawns, were gone. After surviving countless wars, brutal monarchs and plagues they had fallen in defeat to a lunatic corporal with delusions of godhood. They had died at Dunkirk, in North Africa, in the Blitz and in the skies over Great Britain. There was no one left to despair over the estate's present mistreatment, or care what would happen to it when the war ended. In a strange way, Gallagher felt an empathy with the neglected grounds.

Finding the short drive and the walk in the brisk night air had revived him, Gallagher entered the building with more energy than he'd had when he had left Archbury. Receiving a nod of consent from the General's secretary, he pushed back the curtain and entered the large office to find his superior discussing the weather with a young captain.

"Joe, I'm glad you're here," said Britt, immediately noting Gallagher's arrival. "This is Captain Powers. He's here to solve all your problems."

As Gallagher hung his hat and rain slicker on the coat rack, idly wondering if the brass was so upset with his failure at Rostock they were replacing him as commander of the 918th. Puzzled by his own apparent unconcern, he said, "I'm pleased to meet you, Captain, even if I don't believe anyone can solve all my problems."

"I may not be able to get you more planes or men or change the weather, Joe," Britt conceded, "but I think we've found the solution to the Rostock problem."

His curiosity piqued, Gallagher smiled, "I'll settle for that, General."

"The way I understand it, Colonel," said Powers, walking over to the large map on the wall, "your group is being cut to ribbons because fighters can't protect you all the way to Rostock."

"They don't have the fuel to make it there and home," agreed Gallagher.

"But a B-17 does."

Gallagher nodded. "We have the fuel, what we don't have is the fighter power."

"You do now, Colonel. Just leave everything to me," Powers cockily declared.

Correctly interpreting the angry flush on Gallagher's face, Britt hastily explained, "Captain Powers commands a small squadron of twelve YB-40's, Joe."

"I can't say I've ever heard of them, General," admitted Gallagher.

Powers nonchalantly sat on the edge of Britt's desk. "Before long she'll be the most important aircraft in the war."

"The YB-40 is a modified B-17," said Britt, handing Gallagher the specs. "She has two extra 50 caliber guns on the side and an additional power turret in the radio room."

"With all that extra weight she won't be able to carry much of a bomb load, sir," Gallagher pointed out.

Taking the specs from Gallagher, Powers turned a few pages before handing it back. "She doesn't carry any bombs. All she carries is ammunition."

"The YB-40's will be situated on the fringe of the formation, Joe," explained Britt. "Their job will be to protect the B-17's and their bomb load."

"Much as a fighter does," added Powers.

"But without a fighter's speed or maneuverability," Gallagher pointed out.

Powers reclaimed the small booklet explaining the YB-40's capabilities. Closing it, he returned it to the file. "The extra guns should make up for those slight differences."

"Slight!" The arrogance of the young officer fueled Gallagher's barely contained frustration. "Captain, have you ever seen what a Focke-Wulf 190 can do to a B-17?"

"No, but they haven't seen what a YB-40 can do either," Powers calmly returned.

Britt hastily intervened, "You'll both get the chance to test the YB-40's performance. The weather officer predicts cloud cover over Rostock tomorrow, Joe, so you'll stand down. The day after, if weather permits, I want you to hit those facilities again."

"With your permission, sir," Gallagher countered, "I'd like to set up a short mission for tomorrow."

"Joe, you're exhausted, you need that day off," protested Britt. "If I could give your group a three day pass I would, but those targets are too important."

"I think it's also important that we see what the YB-40 can do before we commit it to a mission as extended as Rostock."

Reluctantly, Britt agreed. "A short hop across the channel should be sufficient. Don't you agree, Colonel?"

One look at his superior's face made Gallagher hesitantly nod approval. "Yes, sir."

Britt smiled at the mutinous look his subordinate couldn't disguise. "Captain Powers, you're dismissed. Report to the 918th in Archbury immediately."

"Yes, General." His irritation at the abrupt dismissal obvious, Powers walked briskly from the room.

As soon as they were alone, Britt said, "Sit down and tell me what's bothering you, Joe."

Dropping into a chair in front of Britt's desk, Gallagher rubbed a weary hand across tired eyes before reluctantly admitting, "I don't know, sir."

"I'll accept that for now, as long as you don't allow your opinion of Captain Powers influence your evaluation of the YB-40."

"Was I that obvious, sir?" Gallagher sheepishly inquired.

"Maybe it's because I know you so well," soothed Britt. "And because the captain gets on my nerves, too."

Gallagher smiled at this admission. "General, what would be my chances of trying to talk you into posting Powers to another group?"

"About as much as my being able to give you a ten-day pass." Leaning forward Britt earnestly explained, "I need you, Joe. If the YB-40 doesn't work, it's got to be with the best group and the best commander."

Gallagher's eyes narrowed as he gazed upon his superior in disbelief. "You don't think the concept is feasible, do you, sir?"

"Let's just say I've seen too many 'war ending' theories culminate in disaster to trust a sure thing." Rising from his seat, Britt limped across to the map covering the wall behind his desk. One finger slowly traced the long distance between East Anglia and Rostock. "No matter what we think of Powers, if it works, the YB-40 could save a lot of lives."

"And if it doesn't work, sir, it's my men who'll suffer."

"It can't be any worse than you've had it these last five missions, Joe." 

Glancing up at the map and the strip of yarn stretching from the British coast to Rostock, Gallagher nodded reluctant agreement. "You're probably right, sir."

"That's why they gave me the two stars," smiled Britt. "Seriously, Joe, for your sake, I hope the gamble pays off."

"Thank you, General." Rising to his feet Gallagher formally saluted. "I better get back to Archbury and plan tomorrow's mission."

"Make it somewhere in the Netherlands or Belgium," suggested Britt. "The other groups have targets in France and southern Germany."

Reclaiming his hat and coat, Gallagher nodded agreement. "Yes, sir, I'll contact your office after I've checked the status board and the weather officer and let you know the target."

"Good." Returning to his seat, Britt opened a file and started studying it before hastily adding, "Don't forget I'll expect a full report on the YB-40's performance."

"Yes, sir." Gallagher nodded, one hand reaching for the curtain separating Britt's sanctuary from the outer offices.

"And Joe?"

Pausing mid-stride, Gallagher turned to see what final words of wisdom the general might have to impart. "Sir?"

"As our allies are fond of saying, don't let Powers get up your nose," smiled Britt.

Returning the smile, Gallagher shook his head. "I do have the advantage, General. I'm a colonel, he's only a captain."

"You might have to re-enforce the fact that colonels outrank captains."

"Yes, sir." Smiling broadly, Gallagher admitted, "It'll be a pleasure to do so, sir." 

*****************

Slipping off his glasses, Harvey rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. Immediately after receiving the call from Gallagher about the new mission, he had gone to the officer's club and turned the Toby mug so it faced the wall. The few who'd had the energy to leave their bunks to socialize, quickly finished their drinks and left the room. Even without knowing the target, they knew they would need their sleep after the stress of the last week.

What surprised Stovall was the mildness of their reaction. A few almost mandatory groans were heard, but no one appeared surprised or upset. In spite of the heavy losses and bleak prospects, morale was high. A tribute directly linked to the group's commanding officer. They all knew where they went, he went. He returned to the offices.

"Cup of coffee, Major?" The question was rhetorical, as without consent Komansky was placing a steaming cup next to Stovall's left elbow.

"Thank you, Sandy." Taking a cautious sip of the hot liquid, Harvey savored the flavor as it passed over his taste buds. Swallowing, he verbalized his approval, "With a talent like this, Sergeant, your one and only duty should be making coffee."

"I don't think the colonel would agree with you, sir," said Komansky.

"He might if he had to drink my coffee more often," smiled Stovall. "Anyone can fill out paperwork. Making a pot of coffee that's drinkable -- now that's a talent."

"I second that sentiment."

Taken by surprise at the unexpectedly familiar voice, Harvey quickly turned his gaze upon the figure nonchalantly leaning against the doorframe. He didn't realize his hands were shaking until he felt a burning sensation stinging his fingers. His eyes never wavering from the tall boy leaning against the doorframe, he put the cup on his desk and rose to his feet. "Tom? Tom Powers?"

"Hello, Mr. Stovall. Excuse me..." Straightening, Powers cockily saluted. "I guess I should say 'Major'."

Stovall rounded his desk and held out his hand. "If you call me anything but Pop, I won't know who you're talking to."

"Okay, Pop," Powers readily agreed. 

Noting the puzzled look on Komansky's face, Stovall quickly made the introductions. "Tom Powers, I want you to meet Alexander Komansky, the best flight engineer in the 8th Air Force." Stovall didn't notice Powers perfunctory greeting as he explained, "Tom was one of my son's friends, Sandy. When they were growing up, all the kids in the neighborhood called me Pop."

"I never would've guessed it, sir," said Komansky, ignoring Powers rudeness and returning to his own desk.

"How's Michael, Pop?" asked Powers sitting on the edge of Komansky's desk, partially on top of the papers the Sergeant had just finished typing.

The happiness disappeared as Stovall sadly admitted, "Michael was shot down four months ago. He's officially listed as missing in action."

"I'm sorry, Pop, I didn't know. I've been so busy with this new aircraft design, I've kinda lost track of my friends."

Stovall sadly shook his head. "Then I guess you didn't hear about Gene Peters, either?"

"He's somewhere in the Pacific, isn't he?"

"He was; he was killed on an island called Guadalcanal."

"That's rough, Pop." 

A reflective silence that momentarily united the three men was unexpectedly broken by the appearance of their commanding officer. "In the future, Captain Powers, when you address a superior officer on this base, it will be by rank or the appellative 'sir.' Is that clear, Captain?"

As Komansky regained his feet and stood at attention, Harvey hastily followed suit, pondering Gallagher's obvious ill temper. He had not sounded upset when he called earlier with news of the next day's mission. What could have caused such a drastic change in such a short period of time?

His thoughts focused on his commanding officer, Harvey failed to see the derisive glance sent his way as Powers slowly stood up straight, "Perfectly clear, sir. Pop has just been filling me in on the whereabouts of some mutual friends."

"While he is on duty, Major Stovall will be addressed as major or sir, not Pop," reiterated Gallagher.

"Joe," surprised at the anger in his friend's voice, Harvey defended, "I told Tom it was all right to call me Pop."

"Off-duty," Gallagher emphasized, "he can call you anything you'd like. On-duty, the captain will show proper respect for your rank. Is that clear, Captain?"

Harvey could almost hear the boy's teeth grinding when he finally acknowledged, "Yes, sir."

"Fine. In that case, you better get settled, briefing's at 0600." Handing a file to Komansky, Gallagher continued, "Sergeant, this is the billet officer's room assignments. Would you show Captain Powers to his quarters?"

After a quick glance at the report, Sandy nodded. "Right away, sir. If you'll follow me, Captain?"

As Powers turned to follow Sandy from the office, Gallagher called, "Aren't you forgetting something, Captain?"

Puzzled, Powers shook his head. "I don't think so… sir."

"It's customary to salute a senior officer before leaving his presence."

"Yes, sir." Red faced with suppressed anger, Powers smartly saluted, before turning on his heel and following Komansky from the room.

"Major Stovall," Gallagher called as he crossed to his own office, "would you bring me the target list and the weather report."

"Right away, sir." Puzzled by the performance he'd just witnessed, Harvey quickly gathered the folders and entered Gallagher's office. Standing at attention in front of the scarred desk, he said, "Here are the reports you requested, Colonel Gallagher."

Smiling at the unaccustomed formality, Gallagher leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. "At ease, Harvey. I'm sorry I had to interrupt your little reunion, but it was important Captain Powers learn from the start who's in command of this base and everyone on it."

Harvey sighed with relief and let his shoulders slump. "You had me scared, Joe. I thought the rough go we've been having lately had broken you. That was quite a performance."

"I hope Sandy's more perceptive than you are, or he'll be putting in for a transfer." 

"He probably wasn't fooled for a minute. I don't think he likes Tom any more than you do."

"I never said I didn't like the captain," protested Gallagher.

Stovall smiled. "You didn't have to. There have been insubordinate officers before, but you never tattooed the regulations on their hide."

"I'm sorry, Harvey, I know he's your friend--"

"My son's friend," corrected Stovall.

"It's just he's so damn arrogant."

"He always was," Harvey admitted. "His father is a U.S. Senator, who spent more time in Washington trying to run the country than he did raising his son. Consequently, he gave the boy everything he asked for, which didn't make Tom very popular with the other boys. I think Michael only became his friend because he felt sorry for him."

"That's about what I'd expect from a son of yours, Harvey," said Gallagher.

Touched by the compliment, Stovall cleared his throat. "Do you want a cup of coffee?"

"Did you make it or Komansky?" asked a cautious Gallagher.

Smiling, Stovall admitted, "Komansky."

"In that case, I'll have a cup, thank you."

Stovall freshened his own drink after pouring Gallagher's. Placing the steaming mug next to the open report, he asked, "What's going on, Joe?"

"We're gonna be guinea pigs, Harvey." Laying his pen on the desk, Gallagher pushed back in his chair and unhappily regarded his adjutant. "We'll have the honor of testing the effectiveness of a modified B-17 they call a YB-40."

"Modified in what way?" Stovall suspiciously inquired.

"It's got two additional 50 caliber guns in the waist and an extra power turret," explained Gallagher.

Surprised, Harvey asked, "How do they get it off the ground with all that extra weight?"

"They don't carry bombs. However," Gallagher paused to light his cigarette, before apprehensively continuing, "since they have the same fuel capacity as a B-17, they'll be able to fly all the way to the target and back."

"Sounds too good to be true."

"You know what's funny, Harvey?" Gallagher let his head rest against the back of the chair. "That's what's got me worried."

*****************

Ignoring the baseball game being half-heartedly played on the runway in front of him, Harvey raised the binoculars to his eyes and slowly scanned the sky for the familiar black specks that would be the first sign of the returning aircraft. He hated waiting. He hated the feeling of helplessness it engendered. It was one of the reasons why he had started flying again. 

He could vividly remember the first time he had boarded a B-17 after it had made a belly landing. He'd entered the damaged aircraft to retrieve the severed arm of a young gunner. He had felt helpless then, too, and performing the gruesome task had made him feel useful, even though it still precluded him from entering the exclusive club of this war's combat veterans.

It wasn't until he started flying again that he actually felt he had become an integral part of the 918th Bomb Group. Now, though almost twice the age of the average B-17 pilot, Harvey could proudly say he was a member of their club.

"Here they come!"

Alerted by the watch, though still unable to see the returning aircraft with the naked eye, Harvey again raised the binoculars to his eyes. Each one of those specks represented ten men. When one was missing, it meant the dreams of ten young lives had been shattered. As each speck solidified, Harvey eagerly added it to the list he was mentally accumulating.

The view from the ground more restricted, General Britt called, "How many, Harvey?"

"All twenty-four, sir."

"Good," Britt patted the roof of his car in triumph. "Since it looks like it'll be good news, I think I'll wait for Joe in his office."

"I'll let him know, General." Stovall dropped the binoculars as he acknowledged the information.

Britt hesitated as he bent to enter his car. Straightening, he said, "Tell young Powers I'd like to see him as well."

"Yes, sir." Harvey's eyes remained focused on the returning aircraft. Above the muted roar of the powerful engines, he heard the General's car drive off. As the planes circled overhead, Harvey quickly located the Piccadilly Lily. Noting it was turning in preparation to land, he quickly descended the stairs of the control tower. Climbing into his jeep, he drove over to the Lily's hardstand.

As the large plane rolled onto the cement block, Harvey anxiously peered through the frosted Plexiglas of the windshield. Even though his vision was restricted, he could see his young commanding officer's exhaustion. It was a weariness felt by every man on the base, pilots and ground crew alike. The brass wanted maximum effort and they were getting it. New levels of endurance were being discovered every day. But even the strongest man had to have his limits. As he watched his friend almost fall from the hatch, robbed of his usual agility by an exhaustion of mind and body, Harvey prayed this man, at least, would never discover his limitations.

"General Britt is waiting for you in your office, Joe," said Stovall, knowing that any show of concern would be angrily ignored.

"Thanks, Harvey." Dropping his flight bag in the back of the jeep, Gallagher suggested, "Why don't you go over and pick up Captain Powers. I'll hitch a ride back with Doc Kaiser."

"Okay, Joe," Stovall reluctantly agreed. As he drove away, Harvey almost found himself resenting Powers. Since he had to pick up the young captain, he was being deprived of the short time he and Gallagher usually shared together away from the demands of the office.

Though he didn't know the name of Powers aircraft, Harvey had no trouble finding the arrogant young officer, "Tom . . ." Remembering Gallagher's conduct lesson the evening before, Stovall amended, "Captain Powers, General Britt and Colonel Gallagher are waiting for you in the C.O.'s office."

"Thanks for coming all the way out to outer Mongolia to get me, Pop," said Powers walking briskly across to the jeep. "The war would've been over by the time I walked in."

"Your arrival was unexpected, Captain," empathized Stovall. "For obvious reasons, these were the only hardstands available on such short notice."

Throwing his flight bag on top of Gallagher's, Powers climbed into the passenger seat. "Don't try to make excuses for Gallagher, Pop, I know he's got it in for me."

"When an officer tries to instill discipline into a subordinate, Captain, it doesn't mean he has it 'in' for that officer." Harvey's face flushed a bright shade of red, while his knuckles shown white against the steering wheel as he fought to control his anger.

"Discipline! You should've heard him up there today, Pop." Putting his feet up on the dashboard, Powers imitated, "'Tighten it up! Close it up! Put that wing tip in my cockpit!' As if a few inches were a big deal."

"First of all, Captain," Harvey again emphasized, "we're on duty so you will address me as 'Major.' Second, when a life can depend on a few inches, it is a big deal." 

"I see, Major," Powers shot back. "You're on Gallagher's side."

Harvey couldn't remember the last time he had been so angry. Suddenly realizing they were the focus of a considerable amount of attention by the ground crew, he quickly put the jeep in gear and drove across the field toward the small cluster of buildings comprising the 918th Bomb Group. It was obvious that whatever he said in Gallagher's defense, Powers would ascribe it as a personal motive. Whether the boy felt threatened by Gallagher's rank or abilities, his jealousy was clearly apparent.

This was a dissatisfaction Stovall had no difficulty in recognizing. He had seen it often, first with Davenport, then Savage. But it seemed to be occurring more frequently since Gallagher had become his commanding officer. Many of the men who had earned their rank in peacetime felt threatened by a younger man with superior strategic skills who gained promotion on ability rather than seniority. Any error in judgment was magnified, while Gallagher's many accomplishments were downplayed, if not totally ignored. Even the enemy seemed to hold the young colonel in higher regard than many of Gallagher's own superiors.

Parking the jeep in front of the administration building, Harvey put his hand on Powers' sleeve, exerting enough pressure to keep the younger man in his seat. "War isn't a game, Tom. You don't have opposing sides when you're supposed to be on the same team. Give Colonel Gallagher a chance; he might just keep you alive, if you listen to him."

"It seems to me you people have an inflated view of the feats one man can accomplish." Powers disgustedly noted, "Everyone on this base seems to think Gallagher's some kind of god."

"No, we just wish he were," Stovall sadly stated, personally aware of the damage flak and 20mm shells can inflict on the human body.

Powers shook his head as he climbed deftly from the jeep, "If he really cared about his men, he wouldn't fight me. The whole concept of the YB-40 is to save lives."

"Joe knows that better than anyone." Stovall exited the jeep and turned to face the recalcitrant young officer. "He also knows if this doesn't work, it's his men who'll suffer. Joe's just trying to solve the problems before they develop."

"No, he isn't," disagreed Powers. "He's creating them where they don't exist."

Harvey sighed in disappointment. He had hoped to make the young man understand not only the problems, but that they had to find their solutions -- apparently an impossible task. "We better get inside; the general's waiting for you."

One hand pocketed the keys, as the other pulled Gallagher's flight bag from the back of the jeep. Without a glance at the defiant young man, Stovall led the way into the administration building.

Already filling out the paperwork necessary to chronicle the day's mission, Komansky quickly rose to his feet as the two men entered. The mark from his oxygen mask was still clearly visible. "General Britt and Colonel Gallagher are waiting for you in the colonel's office, Major."

"Thank you, Sergeant," Stovall formally acknowledged. "Here's the colonel's flight bag, please take care of it."

"Yes, sir."

"My bag is still out in the jeep, Sergeant. Make sure it gets to my quarters," ordered Powers.

His voice deeper and more brusque, Sandy repeated, "Yes, sir."

Still wishing he could knock some sense, and a little respect, into the boy's head, Harvey led the way into the office. He was not surprised to see General Britt comfortably ensconced behind the large desk, while Gallagher paced nervously in front of it.

"Harvey, Captain Powers, I'm glad you've finally arrived, I was afraid Joe would wear a path clear down to China," smiled Britt.

"I'm sorry if we kept you waiting, General," deferred Powers. "But my hardstand is at the outer edges of the base."

"No need to apologize, Captain. I knew base procedure well enough to know it would take you a while to get here," soothed Britt.

Harvey watched Powers take one of the chairs in front of the desk, his face clearly showing his unhappiness over his failed attempt to discredit his commanding officer. The features had changed little over the years, but the personality apparently had. Even in his younger days, Harvey was sure he wouldn't have tolerated this kind of behavior from one of his "boys" -- either on the baseball diamond or in his home.

"Shall we get started, gentlemen?" said Britt.

With a reluctance he couldn't explain, Harvey sat in the chair across from Powers. Britt's request was a welcome interruption as he was reminded of what had happened to many of his "boys" in less than two years of war.

"Joe, why don't you start," suggested Britt.

"Yes, sir," acknowledged Gallagher. "Due to recent losses and heavy damage we only got twelve B-17's in the air. With twelve YB-40's, it brought my strike force to twenty-four. The weather was clear all the way to and from Maastrick. Flak was relatively light, so we hit the target dead on. We sustained no losses and only one gunner was injured."

"Didn't I tell you the YB-40 would be the hottest thing in the sky?" Powers crowed.

"Captain Powers, we had one YB-40 for every B-17, which will not be the case tomorrow. It'll be closer to one for every five. Plus, we were attacked by only ten Messerschimitt 109G's," Gallagher pointed out. "Hardly an overwhelming force and far below the numbers we'll encounter when we fly to Rostock."

"We shot down four enemy fighters," stated Powers, defiantly addressing his remarks to General Britt.

Britt nodded cautious approval. "Very good, Captain."

"Almost a fifty percent kill rate." Powers sat forward in his chair.

"Your job isn't to kill," Gallagher protested, finally stopping his pacing. "Your job is to protect the B-17's."

Ignoring Gallagher, Powers kept his eyes on the general. "It's the same thing."

"No, it's not." Gallagher crossed to stand next to General Britt; it was obviously the only way to be sure he had the captain's attention. "I don't care if you knock a fighter out of the sky or just disable it. My only concern is that you keep them off my airplanes. When a gunner concentrates too much on getting a kill rather than disabling the enemy, another fighter can slip through."

"We know our jobs." Noting the expression on Gallagher's face, Powers reluctantly added, "Colonel."

"I hope so, our lives will depend on it," said Gallagher.

In a voice much calmer than his subordinates, Britt commented, "It sounds to me like it was a successful strike."

"Yes, sir," Gallagher hesitantly admitted.

Hearing the hesitation, Britt pressed, "What's bothering you, Joe?"

Gallagher resumed his pacing, "After we dropped our bombs, we were lighter and could've flown faster out of the flak, but, the YB-40's couldn't keep up. So, we had to slow down to keep them covered."

"Was there a significant drop in air speed?" asked Britt.

"No, sir, it was minimal, but you know as well as I do flak can be more deadly than the fighters." Gallagher stopped pacing, "The longer we're in it the more damage we sustain."

Powers rose angrily to his feet, "Now you're stretching, Colonel. If you don't want us to fly with you, why don't you just say so?"

"That will be enough, Captain," ordered Britt. "What is apparently a minor consideration to you, could be a major difficulty to the men who fly with you."

His voice reflecting a calm he didn't feel, Harvey spoke for the first time. "Is the extra time in the flak bed a greater threat than the fighters, Joe?"

Gallagher smiled, the problems he faced had finally been put into proper perspective. "I don't think so, Harvey."

"In that case," Britt said, "as long as the weather holds, you'll run tomorrow's mission as briefed."

"Yes, sir," confirmed Gallagher.

Rising to his feet, Britt limped over to stand next to Gallagher. "Good luck, Joe."

"Thank you, sir."

"And good luck to you, Captain Powers," Britt belatedly added. "I hope the YB-40 can live up to your expectations."

"She will, sir."

His eyes focused first on Gallagher, then Stovall, Britt said, "This time tomorrow, I'll buy the first drink over at the officer's club to celebrate a successful mission."

"I'll look forward to it, General," smiled Gallagher.

Wondering how Britt knew he planned to fly the mission, Harvey nodded agreement. "It'll be a nice end to a long day, sir."

*****************

"Five minutes to the IP, Colonel," the navigator's report crackled brokenly over the intercom.

"There go the FW's and here comes the flak," Gallagher replied.

For the first time, Gallagher approached Rostock with a feeling of confidence. So far, their losses had been minimal. They would be able to bomb both targets with a substantial fighting force that would hopefully make a return visit unnecessary. It was beginning to look like his concern over the YB-40's capabilities had been for nothing. With a feeling of dread, he realized he would have to congratulate Powers. A prospect more daunting than having three FW's on his tail.

"Bombardier to pilot, come right three degrees, sir."

"Roger." Gallagher turned the wheel slightly to the right, his eyes never leaving the altimeter.

"We're on the bomb run, Skipper, two minutes to bombs away," called the bombardier.

Gallagher leaned forward and flicked a switch, "She's all yours, Mike."

Flak exploded all around them, violently shaking the aircraft. Gallagher unconsciously crossed his fingers hoping the movement wouldn't prevent the bombardier from making a proper sighting.

"It looks like they've moved in a few extra batteries since I was here last," Stovall calmly noted.

"Yeah," agreed Gallagher, "they didn't rest on their day off, either."

"Bombs away!"

Even as the plane surged upwards with the sudden weight loss, Gallagher flicked the switch returning control of the aircraft to his column, while automatically compensating for the increased air speed. "Somebody watch for the strike."

Numbing cold and a static-filled intercom making his words almost unintelligible, the ball gunner acknowledged, "Bull's-eye, Skipper! There isn't enough left of that factory to build a row boat."

"Colonel," called Komansky, "the YB-40's are falling behind."

"Damn! I'm decreasing our air speed," Gallagher replied. "Are they catching up?"

"Negative, sir."

As Gallagher reduced his air speed once again, another explosion shook the airplane, "Anyone hit? Damage report."

"This is the left waist, Skipper. We have a new hole in the floor, but both belly gunners are all right."

"They aren't going to stay that way, if we have to slow down any more," Harvey pointed out.

Gallagher nodded agreement as he pressed his mike against his throat. "Komansky, are the YB-40's still falling behind?"

"Yes, sir."

Reluctantly, Gallagher again reduced power. "Those artillery gunners are going to think they're dreaming."

"I'll bet they've never had such slow moving targets before or after a bomb run," agreed Stovall.

The last word had barely left the Major's lips before flak hit the Piccadilly Lily in three different places almost simultaneously. "Damage report," ordered Gallagher.

"Mike's dead, sir." The navigator's normally strong voice was barely audible.

"This is the right waist, Colonel, left waist is hurt."

"How bad?" demanded Gallagher.

"He'll make it if the Lily makes it, sir."

"The radio took a hit, Skipper," reported Saunders. "It doesn't look too bad. I'll see if I can fix it."

"Are you hurt?" Gallagher hastily enquired.

"Just a few scratches, sir. I've gotten worse cuts shaving."

Gallagher closed his eyes in relief before quietly saying, "Do what you can with the radio, Jeff. If things get much worse, I may need to break radio silence."

A piece of shrapnel flew through the cockpit, barely missing both pilots. "I say, I think they're getting our range," Harvey calmly pointed out.

"Komansky," called Gallagher, wondering how the human body could be so cold, yet sweat so profusely, "has our YB-40 escort caught up, yet?"

"One has gone down, Skipper, and the others have tacked on to the group trailing us. They seem to be able to maintain this air speed."

"If we start to lose them again let me know," ordered Gallagher.

"Yes, sir."

As the aircraft shuddered from another brutal assault, Gallagher demanded, "Damage report."

His voice revealing his astonishment, Komansky replied, "We've got a hole the size of the Grand Canyon clear through the right wing, Skipper."

"Right waist," called Gallagher, "is there any oil escaping from engines three or four?"

"Negative, sir, they both look good."

"It seems we got lucky for once," noted Stovall.

"Damn it!" Gallagher pounded his fist on the steering column. "We're getting torn apart. What the hell's going on? We didn't have to slow down this much on yesterday's mission."

"What're you doing differently today than you did yesterday?" Stovall soothingly inquired.

"Nothing," snapped Gallagher, "except for the target and the size of the attack force, everything's the same."

Stovall gently contradicted, "There has to be something different."

Gallagher mentally reviewed each order and requisition he'd signed that morning. "Ammunition! The YB-40's are carrying twice the ammunition they were yesterday."

"I'll bet it's even more than that," noted Stovall, well acquainted with gunners and their desire to carry as much ammunition as the plane could hold and still get off the ground.

"Why didn't I see it when I signed the requisition?" Gallagher berated himself. "I should've realized that much weight would slow us down."

"Even if you had, General Britt would've still ordered you to fly the mission," Stovall pointed out.

"I could've refused."

"What, and see another commander lead your group?" questioned Harvey. "You never would've allowed it."

Before he could reply, Gallagher was thrown violently to his left. Straightening painfully, he tried to ignore the burning sensation in his right shoulder as he turned to see how Stovall had endured the explosion. "Harvey? Harvey?"

When there was no response to his plea, Gallagher used his good hand to press the mike against his throat. "Komansky, get down here on the double. Navigator, take the top turret."

Gallagher waited impatiently for the two men to comply. From where he was sitting, it was impossible to tell if his friend was alive or dead.

"Skipper?" questioned Komansky as he entered the cockpit.

Without turning, Gallagher ordered, "Check Major Stovall, Sandy."

Once again the ship shuddered violently. "Damage report," Gallagher ordered, wondering if he would be saying those two words in his sleep.

"The ol' Lily ain't as long as she used to be, Skipper," replied the tail gunner. "And neither are my guns."

"Are you all right, Newbury?"

"The doc's gonna need tweezers to get all this metal outta my hands and arms, but I'll be fine, sir."

"Right waist," called Gallagher, "get back and see if you can give Newbury a hand."

"Roger, Skipper."

Wondering how many more hits the ship could take and still keep flying, Gallagher returned his attention to the cockpit, "How's Harvey, Sandy?"

"He's out cold, sir." Closing the first aid kit, Sandy put it aside. "But his pulse is strong."

"Well, I can't fly a damaged airplane with one hand. You better get him down to the radio room, so you can take his place."

"Yes, sir." With an ease that was amazing in the limited space, Komansky slipped Stovall out of the co-pilot's chair and through the tunnel. Before taking the empty seat, he reclaimed the first aid kit and opened it.

Correctly interpreting the sergeant's intentions, Gallagher protested, "I'm all right."

"No, sir, you're not. Your right shoulder is bleeding badly." Forestalling Gallagher's denial, Komansky pointed out, "If you bleed to death, we all die."

Gallagher was perfectly aware this statement was an exaggeration. Komansky knew enough to keep the plane in the air until the crew could bail out. However, Gallagher was also aware that most of his men were in no condition to abandon ship. He couldn't remember ever having had a plane or crew so badly shot up. Yet, even with all the damage, their air speed was so slow he hadn't been required to relinquish the lead; a development that was more terrifying than encouraging.

In an effort to block out the pain Komansky was inflicting with his first aid attempts, Gallagher pressed the mike to his throat and asked, "Can anyone see how the rest of the group looks?"

"What's left of the low squadron has just tacked on behind us," the ball gunner replied. "Ramrod three and five have gone down."

"High squadron still looks pretty good, Skipper. They've only lost one," the navigator added.

"Can you see the rest of the wing from up there, Martin?" asked Gallagher.

"Not all of it, but it looks like they're as beat up as we are."

"Damn!" Gallagher's response was more a reaction to his mental pain than his physical pain.

Komansky closed the first aid kit and slipped into the co-pilot's seat. "End of the flak bed dead ahead, Skipper."

"Fighters ten o'clock high," called Martin.

Gallagher had never felt like giving up before, but he did now. He wanted to just let go of the steering column, sit back, close his eyes and pretend he was at home in bed or in a boat sailing across a lake. Anywhere, but where he was, with nothing to worry about, with no blood on his hands, and no pain in his heart. These men, his men, had depended on him, trusted him, and he'd let them down. He felt like a murderer.

********************

His leg aching with every step, Britt painfully climbed the stairs to the top of the control tower. When he had lost the leg in WWI, it had stopped him from doing the one thing he truly loved to do -- fly. Now he could only watch while others, most of them not much more than children, lived -- and died -- fulfilling his fantasy. Despite earlier misgivings, Britt wanted the concept of the YB-40 to succeed, if for no other reason than to keep some of those children alive to continue his dream.

Reaching the top, Britt immediately turned his eyes to the east. His anxiety wasn't unusual. Though it was his job, it wasn't easy to ask men to go out and die. With one man in particular it got harder and harder. Whether it was because of the officer's youth or his long friendship with the boy's father, Britt couldn't explain it himself. All he knew for sure was that he wanted this mission to be successful, because it just might keep Colonel Joseph A. Gallagher alive. While the boy's insistence on flying almost all the missions assigned to the group had made him popular and respected with his men, it had been detrimental to his career. Many saw it as grandstanding. Britt merely saw it as dangerous.

"They're late," noted Doctor Kaiser as he climbed the stairs to stand next to the general.

Britt turned his eyes away from the empty gray sky. "Have you noticed a correlation between a group's arrival time and the success of a mission?"

Never taking his eyes from the sky, Kaiser replied, "The later they are the more casualties there are."

Wishing he hadn't asked, Britt turned to the control tower officer. "How late are they?"

"Late enough that some of them might be running out of fuel," the major admitted.

"Here they come, General," Kaiser announced before running down the stairs to an ambulance waiting below.

Raising his hand to the bill of his hat, Britt eagerly counted the specks periodically appearing in the distance. As he finished the count, he strained his eyes, desperately seeking signs of other returning aircraft. Turning a questioning gaze on the control tower officer, he demanded, "How many planes did you send this morning, Major?"

"Twenty-four B-17's and twelve YB-40's, sir."

Britt couldn't quite keep the pain or anger out of his voice. "How many are returning?"

"Eleven, sir," the Major admitted, lowering his binoculars.

"That can't be." Britt shook his head in despair. "What could've gone wrong?"

Major Reed pointed to the plane coming in for a landing, "If we're lucky, you'll get your answer soon, General, that's the colonel's plane coming in now."

"But he doesn't have any landing gear," cried Britt.

"From the looks of it, sir, that plane doesn't have much of anything that still works," said Reed. Snapping a quick salute in the general's direction, he ran down the stairs.

In horror-stricken fascination, Britt watched as the large aircraft gently touched its belly to the hard concrete of the runway. The scream of metal meeting stone tore into his eardrums, drowning out the roar of the engines from the B-17's circling overhead. When the Piccadilly Lily finally eased to a stop at the end of the runway, Britt limped across the control tower to the stairs. He ignored the pain his impetuosity was causing and almost ran to his car. Pointing to the downed aircraft, he ordered his driver, "Take me to that plane."

On the short drive, Britt watched as other planes in equally poor condition started landing on another runway. Holes peppered the thick metal bodies, windshields were shattered, even entire sections of a tail or wing would be missing. One ship managed to land safely though the tip of one wing had been completely torn away.

The car had barely pulled to a stop before Britt was out the door and limping across the tarmac to the smoking hulk. Ground crew and medics were swarming in and around the massive body, some helping the wounded, while others checked to make sure what was left of the Piccadilly Lily didn't suddenly explode.

Placing a restraining hand on a passing crewman, Britt asked, "Where's Colonel Gallagher?"

"I think he's still in the cockpit, sir," the crewman replied, wiping the dirt and smoke from his eyes.

"Is he hurt?"

"Is there anybody who isn't?" snapped the crewman before suddenly realizing who he was speaking to. "Excuse me, General."

Britt barely acknowledged the apology as he limped closer to the downed aircraft, desperately wishing he had the agility needed to be of assistance. Nearby, one body was already lying on the ground covered with a blanket. How many more would there be before the day was out?

Leaning heavily on two medics, Komansky was slowly led out of the plane and across to a stretcher. Blood coated his left leg where a bone had pushed through the flesh. Recognizing the bloody figure, Britt hurried across. "Sergeant Komansky, how's Colonel Gallagher?"

"He got us down, sir, though I don't know how he did it. Both his right arm and leg are pretty badly shot up, and I think he's got a concussion." Komansky groaned as his stretcher was lifted off the ground. "Doc Kaiser's with the skipper now, General, you should ask him."

"Thank you, Sergeant." Noticing the medic's impatience, Britt stepped away. "Be sure you take good care of him, boys."

"Yes, sir," one of the men absently acknowledged before hurrying away.

As he turned back to resume his quest, Britt saw two men carry Gallagher out of the waist hatch to a stretcher lying near another ambulance. Doctor Kaiser hovered anxiously nearby.

"Easy, boys, watch the leg," cautioned Kaiser.

Britt crossed to stand next to the doctor, "Is Joe going to be all right, Doc?"

"Ask me that again in a couple hours, General," replied Kaiser laying a blanket across his patient.

"General?" The voice was weak and barely loud enough to be heard above the surrounding noise.

The two men carrying the stretcher stopped as Britt put a soothing hand on Gallagher's uninjured arm. "Easy, Joe, just take it easy and let the doctor look after you. We can talk later."

"I'm sorry, General," whispered Gallagher desperately trying to focus his eyes where he thought his commanding officer was standing. "It was my fault, I should've seen, I . . ." The rest of the confession went unspoken as the tortured eyes slowly closed.

At Kaiser's nod, the two orderlies quickly bore the stretcher away. Britt watched, lost in his own pain and fear. Whether the disaster was of Gallagher's making, as he seemed to believe, or someone else's, there were those who would choose to find Gallagher at fault. A simple method of removing the competition they perceived to be breathing down their necks. In assigning the YB-40's to the 918th, had he destroyed a promising young career?

*****************

Harvey could tell by the look on Dr. Kaiser's face that to ask any questions would be hazardous to his health. Meekly, he allowed the diminutive doctor to help him from his bed and into a wheelchair. As he was pushed down the corridor he closed his eyes against the rapidly passing figures increasing the pain in his head. He only reopened them when the wheelchair finally came to a stop. The door blocking their entrance was quickly opened and Harvey was wheeled into Kaiser's office to find himself facing General Britt.

"Thank you, Doctor, I'll call you when we're finished," said Britt, sitting in the chair behind Kaiser's desk.

"You won't have to, sir, because I'm not leaving," Kaiser firmly stated. "This man has been unconscious for almost two days and is here now against my medical judgment. You said it was important to Colonel Gallagher's career that you talk to Harvey immediately, so I've agreed to the meeting. However, I will not trade a life for a career."

Britt's face showed his anger and indecision. Finally, he reluctantly agreed, "You can stay, Doctor, but nothing that is said goes beyond this room."

"Of course not, sir," acknowledged Kaiser, obviously offended there were any doubts about his integrity.

Turning his attention to Stovall, Britt slowly explained, "I know you have a sore head, Harvey, and I'm sorry to pull you out of bed like this, but I had to talk to you alone. You have to tell me what happened up there over Rostock."

"I got knocked out pretty early after the bomb run, General, I don't think there's much I can tell you," Harvey thoughtfully noted. "From what I understand, Sergeant Komansky acted as co-pilot for the return flight."

"I'm going to talk to him next," admitted Britt. "What I need to know from you is what happened in that cockpit immediately before and after the bomb run."

Harvey closed his eyes, trying to find the memories in the pain. "I remember the fighter attacks were fewer than they had been on the other missions, but the flak started earlier. They were definitely expecting us. The closer we got to the targets the heavier it got. On the bomb run and just after, it was the heaviest I've ever seen."

"Could you've flown around the flak?" asked Britt.

"Not and hope to hit the target."

"At least you did that," Britt disclosed. "From all reports both facilities were severely damaged."

"Then it wasn't all for nothing," noted Stovall in relief.

Gently Britt pressed, "What happened after bombs away, Harvey?"

"Up until then the Lily'd been pretty lucky." Harvey closed his eyes allowing the memories to come forth. "We'd sustained only minor damage from fighters and flak. Normally after bombs away, we would increase our speed and get out of the flak bed as fast as possible and minimize further damage."

"Why didn't you this time?"

His head throbbing from the anger the memory instilled, Harvey opened his eyes and focused them on his commanding officer. "Because the YB-40's couldn't keep up. Joe had to make a quick decision, abandon over a hundred men and leave the 40's behind, or drop our air speed."

"He chose to drop his air speed," Britt correctly interpreted.

One hand massaging an aching temple, Harvey cautiously nodded. "Yes, sir, but by this time we'd already outdistanced the 40's flying with our group."

"What happened to them?" pressed Britt ignoring Kaiser's disapproving frown.

"They tacked on to the group behind us." 

Rising to his feet, Britt rounded the desk. "Do you know why the 40's couldn't keep up?"

"Joe figured that while we lost weight when we dropped our bombs, they were still heavy with ammunition." Dropping his hand, Stovall impatiently demanded, "Ed, what's going on? What do you think Joe's done wrong?"

"It's not what I think, Harvey." Resting his weight on the edge of the desk, Britt admitted, "It's what General Pritchard and a few others seem to be willing to believe. Captain Powers has accused Joe of abandoning the YB-40's and fouling up the mission, resulting in such heavy losses."

"That's crazy!" Stovall yelled almost forgetting his aching head in his fury.

"From your report I'd have to agree with you." Turning his attention to the doctor, Britt asked, "Do you think you could trust me alone with your patient long enough for you to bring Sergeant Komansky here?"

"I'd rather put him back to bed," suggested Kaiser, gazing earnestly at his friend.

His hands gripping the wheels of his chair so tight his knuckles had turned white, Harvey refused, "Not unless you're willing to break my hands to get me out of here, Doc."

"I should've been a civilian doctor," said Kaiser, shaking his head as he opened the door and exited the office.

Fear clearly audible in his voice, Stovall asked, "Is Joe in trouble, Ed?"

"I'm afraid so, Harvey," Britt sadly admitted. "Captain Powers has lodged a formal complaint."

"If there's any blame to be placed," Harvey angrily asserted, "it's with Powers."

"But Joe specifically told me it was his fault," contradicted Britt.

"That's because Joe feels he should've seen the problem before it developed, when he signed their requisition for ammunition." Stovall impatiently explained, "It was twice the size of the previous day's. I told Joe, it wouldn't have made any difference, you would've ordered him to fly the mission anyway."

Standing up straight, Britt nodded. "You're damn right I would've. I told him those targets were important."

"It probably wouldn't have changed anything," Harvey pointed out, "but it would've been nice if Captain Powers had told us he was carrying only half a load at your debriefing on the Maastricht mission."

Before Britt could reply, Doctor Kaiser re-entered the office, pushing another wheelchair. This time, one leg of the patient was raised so it was level with his torso. It took a little maneuvering to fit the new arrival inside the small office.

"Maybe after this, somebody will give me a bigger office," panted Kaiser, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Britt turned his attention to Komansky. "Sergeant, Major Stovall has been explaining what happened up until the time he was hit. Can you tell us what happened from the time you entered the cockpit until you landed here at Archbury?"

Clearly puzzled by the request, Sandy nodded. "Yes, sir. After the colonel called me down, I got the major back into the radio room, then I bandaged the skipper's right arm. By the time I sat in the co-pilot's seat, we were coming out of the flak bed to see fighters waiting for us. We'd lost the tail gun and the cheek gun. Newbury, the tail gunner, and Rice, the left waist gunner, were both injured, but managed to work a belly gun between 'em."

"How did you know they were doing that?" Britt curiously inquired.

"We could hear 'em over the intercom, sir," Komansky explained.

His curiosity piqued, Britt asked, "Were they very effective?"

"The colonel himself can confirm one FW down and one probable," Komansky proudly stated.

"Harvey," Britt ordered, "when you're back on your feet I want a detailed report on how they did it."

Stovall reached for a pencil and paper from Kaiser's desk. "Yes, sir," he acknowledged as he made a note to himself.

Clearly upset, Kaiser pointed out, "There are other capable officers on this base who can make that report, General."

"Go on, Sergeant," Britt urged, ignoring the verbal chastisement.

"At first the fighters only inflicted minor damage," Komansky continued. "In spite of the lost firepower, we were able to hold our own. Then we ran into more experienced pilots who concentrated on the leader -- us."

"Where were the YB-40's during these attacks?" asked Britt.

Komansky shrugged his shoulders. "Still back with the 514th, I believe, sir."

Leaning his weight back on the desk, Britt pressed, "Did they ever attempt to rejoin your group?"

"Not as far as I know, General," Sandy reluctantly admitted. "Of course, we were pretty busy. The first pass knocked out our number three engine. But, since we were already flying at reduced speed, we didn't have to relinquish the lead. Not long after, a hit killed the radio operator and destroyed the radio. It's a miracle Major Stovall wasn't re-injured."

"The deity had nothing to do with it," smiled Kaiser, gently squeezing his friend's shoulder. "Harvey's just plan lucky."

"I'll accept any explanation you choose to believe, Phil. I'm just glad I'm here," said Stovall, returning his friend's smile.

Britt's angry gaze settled on each man before he demanded, "Do you gentlemen mind if we get on with the debriefing?"

"Sorry, sir," Stovall unrepentantly apologized.

"Shall we try it again, Sergeant," suggested Britt.

"About an hour from the coast, the fighters disappeared and the flak reappeared." Komansky continued. "One piece went through my leg before taking out the hydraulics system. Soon after, another piece went through the skipper's leg and we lost the ball turret. The last burst knocked Colonel Gallagher unconscious. I just kept the Lily on course 'til he came around to land her." 

"Which he managed to do with a badly wounded arm, leg, and a concussion," Kaiser pointed out. "Seven men are alive because of his skill. If you ask me the boy deserves a medal, not a court-martial."

"Court-martial!" Komansky belated added, "Sir?"

"That's enough, Major," ordered Britt.

"No sir, it's not enough," the infuriated doctor protested. "After what we heard today, you can't possibly think Joe's responsible for the high losses? If you're not willing to fight for him, I am."

"Calm down, Doctor," Britt soothed. "Who said I wasn't going to fight? I just needed some ammunition to fight with, and Harvey and Sergeant Komansky have just given it to me."

Obviously unrepentant, Kaiser apologized, "Sorry, General, I take back everything I thought about you."

Noticing the look on Britt's face, Harvey quickly interceded, "What happens now, Ed?"

"Now, I set up a meeting with General Pritchard and Captain Powers for tomorrow morning and hope you and Joe will be well enough to attend," said Britt, using the desk to push himself back on to his feet.

"I wouldn't count on it, General," cautioned Kaiser. "I wasn't even sure Joe was going to make it until this morning. He's lost a lot of blood and has a serious concussion."

"I'm talking about saving his career, Doctor," snapped Britt.

Kaiser stubbornly asserted, "And I'm trying to save his life, General."

"At least for right now, his career is his life, Phil," Stovall calmly noted.

"All right," Kaiser unhappily conceded, "if he comes around on his own and seems strong enough, he can attend your meeting."

Britt smiled triumphantly. "Thank you, Doctor."

"You better not thank me yet, there are stipulations," said Kaiser, the look on his face making it clearly apparent there would be no argument or further concessions. "First, the meeting will take place in his hospital room. Second, I'll be in attendance at all times. When I say he's had enough, the meeting is over."

His reluctance obvious, Britt nonetheless nodded agreement. "Acknowledged, Doctor." 

*****************

The next day, Harvey found himself back in the wheelchair in his commanding officer's hospital room. His worried gaze strayed to his friend's heavily bandaged head. He could sympathize with the pain he knew existed beneath those bandages. The face was pale except along Gallagher's right cheek where bruising had turned the flesh a multitude of colors. But it was the eyes that haunted Harvey. He knew the pain they reflected was mental as well as physical – only three days before, almost five hundred men had died under his command. "Are you sure you're up for this, Joe?"

Gallagher forced a smile. "Do you really think it'd make a difference if I wasn't?"

"It would with Doc Kaiser," Harvey pointed out.

"Unfortunately, he's not the ranking officer."

"I don't think he'd agree with you."

This time the smile wasn't forced when Gallagher asked, "Where did he go, anyway?"

"To get Sandy," explained Stovall. "Since he was your co-pilot for most of the return flight, General Britt wants him here to answer any questions General Pritchard might have."

"He was pilot for part of it as well," noted Gallagher closing his eyes.

Stovall's concerned gaze again settled on the pale features of his youthful commander. "Joe, you're tired, why don't you let me postpone this meeting?"

"I'm tired," Gallagher agreed, but it's not a physical exhaustion, Harvey. I'm tired of fighting, of the politics, of having to defend every decision I make. If they didn't think I could do the job, why did they give it to me?"

"Because they knew you could do the job."

"That doesn't make any sense."

Moving his chair closer to the bed, Stovall sadly explained, "As you once told me, Joe, war is fought by the young. It's hard for us old geezers to sit back and watch an entire generation destroyed. It hurts." Looking out the window, Harvey's eyes focused on the blue sky above, "It hurts to know there isn't anything we can do to stop the dying. But we can try to keep as many of you alive as possible." Returning his earnest gaze to his friend, Harvey pointed out, "Sometimes that can only be done by second guessing. Asking the hard questions, so there won't be a next time."

"It's a nice sentiment, Harvey and I'd like to believe it was true," Gallagher skeptically stated. "Unfortunately, I've been stabbed in the back too many times to believe anyone's looking out for my welfare."

Harvey was almost relieved Kaiser chose that moment to re-enter the room, Sandy's injured leg again giving him problems as he tried to maneuver the wheelchair through the door. His concern for his sergeant claimed Gallagher's attention, for which Harvey was very grateful. He knew he didn't have answers that would satisfy Gallagher. He'd been present himself on several occasions when the young colonel had been challenged by jealous rivals. It was never pleasant.

"General Pritchard and General Britt are coming down the hall, Joe," said Kaiser, panting a little from his exertion. "There's still time to call them off if you don't feel up to it."

Gallagher cautiously shook his head. "Thanks, Doc, but if Harvey and Sandy are all right, I'd rather get it over with."

A typical Gallagher response, Harvey realized, thinking of his friends before he worried about himself. "The decision is yours, Joe, you know Sandy and I are on your side."

"Hey, don't forget me," protested Kaiser.

"Thank you." Gallagher's smile showed his gratitude.

Only Kaiser came to attention as the two generals and Captain Powers entered the room. Injuries prevented the other three from doing anything more than sitting up straight.

"At ease, Doctor," ordered Pritchard. "Okay, Ed, this is your show. Where do you want to start?"

"I think you should hear Major Stovall's report first, sir, then Sergeant Komansky's," suggested Britt.

General Pritchard nodded assent. "Proceed, Gentlemen."

With more amplification than he'd given in his previous explanation, Harvey gave his report. There was no attempt to conceal Gallagher's own admission of quilt over his failure to associate the ammunition requisition with the air speed. Harvey knew that if he didn't reveal the error, Gallagher would himself, and it would only look as though Harvey had been trying to hide it.

"Thank you, Major," said Pritchard when Stovall had completed his report. "Sergeant Komansky?"

His own contribution at an end, Harvey barely listened as Sandy began his report. While most eyes were on the Sergeant, Harvey focused his on Tom Powers. The look on the familiar face was almost feral. When had the boy grown so cold? Though not his father, Harvey knew he had contributed to Powers' upbringing. Where had he gone wrong?

"Thank you, Sergeant," said Pritchard. "Colonel Gallagher, do you have anything to add?"

"Only to say that I should have seen it coming, General," admitted Gallagher. "Our experience on the previous mission alerted me to the possibility that we might have to cut our air speed. I didn't, however, anticipate such a drastic cut. The failure of the mission was totally my own."

Pritchard shook his head. "It's nice, Colonel, but hardly necessary for you to accept all the blame for a successful mission."

"Successful!" protested Gallagher. "I lost twenty-six aircraft, two hundred and sixty men, sir."

"And completely destroyed the aircraft factories and the naval facilities in Rostock," Pritchard pointed out. "It'll take them months to even partially rebuild."

"Then excuse me for asking, sir, what is this inquiry all about?" asked Gallagher as much in frustration as puzzlement.

"Captain Powers has made some accusations and they had to be addressed before we decided where to go with the YB-40," explained the general. "First, Colonel, he accused you of deserting his ships and their crews. I believe Major Stovall has already disproved that notion."

"General," Gallagher earnestly replied, "if we'd slowed our speed to allow the YB-40's to catch up with my group, there wouldn't have been anything left of the wing."

"You see, General…" Obviously unable to keep quiet any longer, Powers asserted, "now he's trying to place the blame on my aircraft. He doesn't like me; he never wanted to give me a chance. He was against me from the beginning."

Pritchard contradicted, "I've seen nothing unseemly concerning Colonel Gallagher's conduct. On the other hand, Captain Powers, yours has been highly irregular. I expect a full report detailing the specifications of the YB-40's ammunition, weight capacity, and air speed on my desk by this time tomorrow."

About to protest, Powers took one look at the General's face before meekly agreeing, "Yes, sir."

Ignoring the defiant young man, Pritchard addressed Britt, "Ed, I want you to test the YB-40 again, but this time with another group."

Britt angrily defended, "If you're implying Colonel Gallagher let his feelings--"

"I'm implying nothing," soothed Pritchard. "In Joe's own interest there should be one more test. If it fails, it can't be blamed on personalities. If it succeeds, then, we'll investigate why one mission was successful and the other failed."

"Yes sir," Britt meekly agreed.

"Also," Pritchard continued, "I want Captain Powers replaced as squadron leader."

"You can't do that," Powers protested.

Pritchard's face looked like it had been carved in stone. "What can't I do, Captain?"

"I designed the YB-40, nobody knows her like I do." Suddenly noticing the angry face, Powers hastily added, "General."

"That kind of knowledge doesn't necessarily make a good combat pilot, Captain," Pritchard pointed out. "Especially when you keep the information to yourself. After the mission to Maastricht, when the question of air speed was presented, you should've pointed out you were only carrying half a load of ammunition."

In a voice that was conciliatory, yet incisive, Kaiser said, "I hate to interrupt, General, but it's time for Colonel Gallagher's medication."

Harvey realized immediately this was the doctor's subtle way of saying the meeting was over. As he noted, his friend's almost translucent features, Harvey fully agreed with the diagnosis. To be honest, his head was hurting more than just a little, and it was obvious Komansky was also feeling a measure of discomfort. 

"It's all right, Doctor," said Pritchard. "I believe we've covered everything. Ed?"

"I can't think of anything we need to discuss right now, sir," Britt agreed.

As he was about to exit the room, Pritchard said, "I expect a full written report from each of you when you're feeling better."

With Britt limping along behind, Pritchard slowly walked out of the room. Kaiser followed close on their heels with an obviously hurting sergeant.

Facing the unrepentant Captain, Harvey asked, "Why, Tom? What did you hope to gain by trying to destroy Colonel Gallagher?"

"A chance," Powers eventually replied.

Puzzled, Harvey asked, "A chance for what?"

"To be the new Colonel Gallagher."

Harvey shook his head, "You're Tom Powers, why would you want to be someone else?"

"To make him notice me." Crossing to the window, Powers eyes were drawn to the activity around the hangers. "I was the star quarterback and the number one pitcher in high school, but he never knew I was alive. If I go home a hero, he'd have to notice me."

Realizing the "he" Powers was referring to was the young man's father, Harvey sadly asserted, "You can't make yourself become a hero just by wanting it, Tom."

"He did." Turning away from the window, Powers pointed at Gallagher. "It was easy for him."

"I'm not a hero," Gallagher quietly stated.

"You call it easy!" Harvey angrily denounced. Desperately wishing he had the strength to stand, he rolled his wheelchair around the bed to confront Powers. "You think it's easy to wake up in the morning and know you have to order men out to die?"

"That's not heroism," sneered Powers.

"Obviously not by your standards," Stovall agreed, "but to the men he commands he deserves the highest medal the government can award. They follow him because they know he cares. That, at least, gives them a chance to survive."

"They follow him because they'd be in the stockade if they didn't. You only get medals for being smarter than the other guy, Major," Powers haughtily proclaimed. "You wait and see if I don't get me some before this war's over. Then you'll all see."

Harvey sadly watched as the boy walked confidently out the door. "I'm sorry, Joe."

"For what, Harvey?" asked a puzzled Gallagher.

Sighing unhappily, Stovall pointed out, "In trying to advance himself, Tom almost destroyed you."

"That wasn't your fault," Gallagher protested.

"I was there in the beginning," said Harvey gently massaging an aching temple. "I should've seen his pain. I should've helped him more when he was a boy." 

Gallagher reached for a cigarette, finding it difficult to light with the IV's running into his one good arm. "It wasn't your job, Harv. He had a father of his own. You could only do so much. It looks to me as though there was only one person Tom would've listened to, and that person was never there for him. You couldn't have done more than you did. Everyone has a limit."

"Have you tried listening to your own advice?" Harvey wisely inquired.

"What do you mean?" asked Gallagher in puzzlement.

"You're not invincible, Joe, and you're not God," said Harvey. "You're human, prone to human error."

His good hand tapping the cast encompassing his right leg from waist to ankle, Gallagher pointed out, "When I make mistakes men die."

"They die if you don't make a mistake," Stovall calmly asserted. "We're at war."

Obviously reliving the painful memory of their last mission, Gallagher whispered, "When those fighters came screaming down on us over Rostock, I almost gave up."

"'Almost' only counts in horseshoes," said Stovall.

"Didn't you hear what I said?" Gallagher angrily demanded. Stubbing out his cigarette, he clarified, "I wanted to give up."

"But you didn't," Harvey calmly stated. "If you had, I wouldn't be here and neither would any of the others."

"I was exhausted, I should've grounded myself," argued Gallagher.

Exasperated, Stovall demanded, "Do you honestly think you would feel better if those men had died under someone else's leadership?"

"No," Gallagher reluctantly admitted.

"Do you think the outcome would've been different?" pressed Stovall.

The reply was barely audible. "No."

"Then just rest and let yourself heal," suggested Harvey. "Both inside and out. Then get back into that cockpit."

Closing his eyes, Gallagher reluctantly admitted, "I don't know if I can, Harvey."

"That's because you're tired." Harvey smiled. "In another week you'll be ordering Kaiser to release you for duty, casts and all."

"Know me pretty well, don't you?" Gallagher returned the smile around a yawn he couldn't suppress.

"Well enough," whispered Stovall.

The eyes that had been fighting to stay open slowly closed. In repose, the face was extraordinarily young to be making such monumental decisions. Despite this, Harvey knew there was no one he would more willingly follow into battle. For, of all those he had served under, none had cared more about his men than Joseph Anson Gallagher -- an important consideration if you hoped to survive a war. Contrarily, there was no one with more determination to complete a mission, something you needed if you hoped to win that war. An outcome that, at least in Harvey's mind, was no longer in doubt.


End file.
